"What do you want?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer won't be something as simple as money or revenge.
"What I've always wanted—to observe fascinating subjects under optimal conditions. You see, Delilah, you've been the focus of my research for nearly a decade now. Your psychological profile, your unusual adjustment to trauma, your capacity for violence disguised as moral clarity. You're quite remarkable, really."
The casual way she discusses my life, as if I'm a lab rat rather than a human being, makes rage flare hot in my chest."You killed innocent people. Casey didn't deserve to die for your fucking research project."
"Casey was a necessary component of the experimental design," Shaw replies without any trace of remorse. "Her death served multiple purposes—eliminating a potential source of information while escalating emotional pressure on the primary subjects. Every element has been carefully calculated."
Kent steps closer, his presence a solid wall of support behind me. I can feel his breath against my hair, steady and controlled despite the violence I know is building inside him.
"The choice," Shaw continues, "is quite elegant in its simplicity. You have six hours to save one of them. Not both—that would defeat the purpose of the exercise. One location, one rescue, one woman who gets to continue her life because you decided she was worth more than the other."
"You're insane," I breathe, but Shaw's laugh suggests she finds my assessment amusing rather than offensive.
"I prefer 'methodical.' You see, this isn't random cruelty, my dear. This is the culmination of years of observation and planning. I need to document how you respond when forced to choose between competing loyalties. Will you save the woman who raised you, who gave you stability and unconditional love? Or will you save the woman your surrogate mother loves most, knowing that losing her would destroy Janine far more completely than her own death?"
The psychological trap is elegant and devastating. Shaw understands that saving Janine would mean condemning Aliyah to death, but Janine would never forgive herself for surviving when Aliyah didn't. And saving Aliyah would mean losing the only real family I've ever had, the woman who pulled me fromthe wreckage of my father's death and taught me how to build a life worth living.
Either choice destroys something fundamental about who I am.
"Where are they?" Kent asks, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that makes people answer without thinking.
"Ah, Mr. Shepherd. How lovely to finally speak with you directly. I've been such an admirer of your work—the original work, I mean. This recent amateur copying has been terribly disappointing by comparison."
The casual dismissal of her own murders would be laughable if it weren't so revealing. Shaw doesn't even acknowledge the copycat killings as her work because they don't measure up to her standards of what my signature should represent.
"The locations," Kent repeats, and there's something in his tone that makes even Shaw pause.
"Of course. The first location relates to Janine's professional history—the abandoned Riverside Rehabilitation Center on Millfield Road. You may remember it from the news coverage of the budget cuts that forced its closure. Quite tragic, really, all those people who needed help suddenly left without resources."
I know the place. Janine worked there early in her career, before moving into private practice and victim advocacy. She still talks about it sometimes, the frustration of watching a facility that actually helped people get shuttered because of politics and funding priorities.
"The second location celebrates Aliyah's artistic ambitions," Shaw continues. "The old Mackenzie Warehouse on the east side, where she rented studio space before meeting youraunt. She produced some quite lovely work there, before love convinced her that domestic stability was more important than creative expression."
My heart sinks as I realize what Shaw has done. Both locations are at least forty minutes apart, even with light traffic. There's no possible way to reach both sites within the six-hour window she's provided, especially not knowing what kind of obstacles or traps she might have prepared.
"You can't possibly save both," Shaw observes, as if reading my thoughts. "The timeline is deliberately impossible. That's rather the point of the exercise, isn't it? True choice requires sacrifice. You must decide which woman's life has more value to you personally."
"I'll kill you," I say, the words emerging with absolute certainty. "However this plays out, whatever happens to them, I will find you and I will fucking kill you."
Shaw's delighted laughter fills the destroyed living room, echoing off the overturned furniture and scattered pottery like the sound of breaking glass.
"Oh my dear, that's exactly what I'm hoping for. You see, the real experiment isn't about which woman you choose to save. It's about documenting the moment when Dr. Lila North, respected forensic psychologist and carefully constructed survivor, finally becomes Delilah Jenkins—the girl who thanked a killer for murdering her father."
The truth hits me like a physical blow. This was never about choosing between Janine and Aliyah. This has always been about forcing me to embrace the violent potential Shaw has been documenting for nine years. She wants to turn me into a killer, and she's using the people I love most as leverage to make it happen.
"You have six hours," Shaw says, her voice returning to that clinical, professional tone. "I suggest you don't waste time on moral philosophy. The clock starts now."
The line goes dead, leaving Kent and me alone in the devastated silence of what used to be a safe haven.
I stare at the phone in my hands, processing the impossible mathematics of Shaw's psychological trap. Six hours. Two locations. Two women I love, both in mortal danger because of choices I made years ago.
Kent's arms come around me from behind, solid and warm and real. "We'll figure this out," he says against my hair, carrying absolute conviction despite the impossibility of the situation.
"How?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "Even if we split up, even if we both go to different locations, there's no guarantee we can save either of them. Shaw has had time to prepare, to set traps, to ensure that any rescue attempt fails."
"Because Shaw made the same mistake she's been making all along," Kent replies, turning me in his arms so I can see his face. "She thinks this is about psychological manipulation and academic theory. She doesn't understand that some bonds are forged in violence, and that those bonds make people willing to burn everything down to protect what they love."
His eyes are darker than I've ever seen them, and I recognize the look from nine years ago—the expression he wore when he decided my father needed to die. This isn't the reformed furniture restorer who's been trying to build a quiet life. This is the Carver, fully awakened and focused on a target that has made the catastrophic error of threatening his territory.
